Idle hands are bad enoughThough now it seems as idle loveIndependantly decideSo sorry dear, and fake it shyAll without a saving GraceSlowly, surely, then replacedIn dreams, in years, in absent sailsFlowing all from children's pailsYawning and another yawnOddly loving that it's goneUnderneath the defiled oneA triumph here is less than noneReason that, "More than I know"Equals everything you didn't showAgain, a man, whose idle handsMean more than he now understandsYet even though I'm not enoughThe truth is cold andHonest love.

Copyright 2000 by Susanne Estelle Hendrickson

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